The Breakfast Club: Back to Reality
by FirstMuse
Summary: Travel back in time to 4:00 p.m. on that Saturday in March when five teens grudgingly assembled in the Shermer High School library as strangers and departed hours later as something more. As each drove (or walked) away, their stories hung in limbo, left untold. Until now.
1. Chapter 1: Saturday - Back to Life

**Saturday…Back to Life**

BENDER

Bender strode purposefully across the deserted football stadium, every fiber of his being pulsing with energy.

_So this is what it feels like to be alive. _

He punctuated the thought with a fist pump in the air, the pull of the earth's gravity the only force preventing him from taking off into the bold blue heavens like Superman himself. It wasn't enough, and a bellow soon followed, piercing the air like cannon shot.

Ma had often quipped that he looked like a bull when he was like this, nostrils flaring, eyes focused and dangerous. And he was large and lumbering, his broad frame belying his middling height.

As a strong breeze whipped his denim jacket and woolen scarf, the trace of a fragrance wafted past his face. Sophistication. Class. And musk.

Claire.

Absently, he touched the diamond earring newly nested in his left ear as the corners of his mouth lifted into a grin.

Claire.

_It's a fat girl's name._

His face burned at the thought. _Why the hell did I say that?_

It had just popped out. It was seven something freaking o'clock in the morning, and John Bender preferred to sleep in on Saturdays. Then she had eyed him with that prissy sneer all the queenies appeared to have perfected, and he wanted nothing more than to shock it off. It wasn't a name he liked anyway. Too fussy. Bender liked simple names on girls, like Cathy and Gina and Tammy. But a name like Cathy would never settle well on this one with the flaming red hair and biting sarcasm, this one who had reached through his pain, opened the door to his soul, then turned and left him standing there to gape at her retreat.

As Bender turned onto Hughes Street, the familiar battered trailer park greeted him somberly. It had probably been nice once, kept up with mowed grass and landscaping and maybe even the occasional neighborly cookout, but somewhere along the way the Sunnyvale Mobile Home Park ("_Just the place to rest your rump!"_ a weathered sign still boasted) had gotten lost and found its way to hell before the Benders moved in three years ago. He avoided it when he could, but his belly howled for fuel.

As he strode toward #350, a particularly sad abode with faded green siding and a sagging wooden porch, he spotted his buddy Russell leaning against the side of the house, smoking one of his foul Camels.

Russell spread his hands impatiently. "Dude, where you been all day?"

Bender scooped up his basketball from the patch of grass they called a yard and dribbled it under and over his legs, under and over like a pretzel. "I had detention."

"Detention? For what?"

"Remember the fake fire alarm on Thursday?"

Russell guffawed. "That was you?"

Bender took on a mocking Vernon voice. "Young man, I was only performing my civic duty of ensuring that our children are properly drilled." He punctuated this with a shot to the basket, attached to a lonely pole by the street. No net. The ball bounced loudly off the rim and rolled into the yard.

Russell opened his mouth with what was surely going to be a smartass retort, then snapped it shut as he studied Bender's face.

"Damn, brother," he chortled. "How much did it cost and where can I get some?"

Bender shook his head and clapped Russell on the back, brushing past him and up the steps to the porch and inside, leaving Russell gawking at him.

_What I got you could never hope to get. And I ain't sharing._

ANDREW

Andrew shut the car door and met his father's eyes.

_I hate you. God, I hate you._

Even the wonder and beauty that was Allison could not break this wild stallion of hatred for the man sitting mere inches from him, the tension between them so thick it was almost suffocating.

They rode in silence until they were out on the main street. But it never took long for his father's words to spill out, cutting and accusing. "That will be the last black mark on your record, young man. Discipline problems will blow your ride. Is that understood?"

Lips parted, barely a whisper slipped out. "Yessir."

"Your mother and I didn't raise a loser. We raised a winner. Don't prove it to me, prove it to yourself. Even winners stumble and fall from time to time…"

The rest was lost on Andrew as his mind wandered a different path. The road to reverie. And down that path, barely visible but becoming clearer with each step, stood Allison.

His mind replayed the moment when she had emerged. There he had been, perched on the wooden rail in the library, probably looking like a moron, fingering the delicate cross around his neck, deep in thought.

He had been given much to think about. For the first time he had articulated, to a group of mostly strangers save a passing acquaintance with Claire, his personal hell of homespun misery. He had torn open a stinking feedbag of family filth and force-fed them all from it with a wrath greater than anything Vernon could ever dream of conjuring. And the wild thing was that they had taken it in, every single one of them, silent and wide-eyed as he flung it around. Even Bender, a guy he had almost come to blows with earlier in the day. Bender hadn't been his problem, he realized now. Andrew had brought a load of baggage to this party, and now here he sat (in the damned school library of all places) with his baggage spilled out and strewn everywhere. _Hell, I carry more shit in my purse than Allison_. Now the question was what to do with it. Could he leave it here? Burn it? Did he have to go around and retrieve each piece to be dealt with later? Andrew was not naïve. It wasn't going to just disappear on its own, but for the first time in a long time, his head felt clearer and he saw before him several paths he could take besides the one his father was driving him down like a bridled colt.

Then she had emerged, like a butterfly from a cocoon. Allison. Her dark hair swept away from her face, her pale skin shining, her deep brown eyes darting around as if seeing their world for the first time, her lips like painted roses. Time slowed, then stopped, as their eyes locked. His body dropped on its own and moved toward her as if in a dream. She had some exchange with Brian, but Andrew barely registered it, and then she stood before him. Her eyes, so beautiful, but full of suspicion. Uncertainty. Fear. The butterfly thinking to flee to the comfort of her spun cave. He could not let that happen.

So he opened his mouth to say something, anything. "What happened to you?" _You_ _idiot_.

She tried to blow it off. "Why? Claire did it." No big deal. But her eyes implored him. _Am I beautiful? _"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." He reached toward her. "It's just…so different. I can see your face."

Allison seemed to relax a bit. "Is that good or bad?"

"It's good."

Then she broke into a smile, a brilliant, blinding smile, and Andrew lost his heart in that one moment. He had already fallen for her in a way that was different, because _she_ was different. Allison was scathing and self-defeating and undeniably real, and unapologetic about all of it. Most of the girls he knew pretended to be normal, pretended like he did. They even pretended to be impressed with his jock image, his jacket, his trophies. Didn't they see that he wasn't much of a man at all? Couldn't they see that his whole life was a game, that he was a fake? Allison was not impressed because she could see through the façade, to the point where she had cut both Claire and him to the core with staggering clarity.

"He can't think for himself." She had nailed him without missing a beat.

Allison pretended too, protected herself, but did it by making absolutely sure she would not be approached, would not be pulled in to the same movie everyone else was starring in. She had begun the day as a wounded girl who looked at no one and spoke not a word, but now she had shed the costume, the baggy clothes and curtain of hair - and bag of shit - and stood before him a young woman, beautiful and fragile and more real than ever.

Something deep within him, suddenly awakened, leapt up in his belly when he kissed her, and he almost thought he could hear a humming like a tuning fork when their lips parted. Andrew caught a glimpse of Brian grinning goofily at them from his seat before he pulled Allison into an embrace and closed his eyes as he drank in the faint sweet scent of makeup, hair spray, and….

"Andrew! Are you listening to me, boy?"

Eyes snapping open, Andrew quickly took in his surroundings and realized the car was parked in his family driveway. In his periphery he could see his father turned toward him, one hand on the wheel and one on the seat back, eyes flaring. Then, to his mild shock, his father slumped a bit and turned to face front again. "Go on, son."

Andrew quickly escaped the vehicle and walked quickly into the house and up to the second floor, his twelve year-old sister Heather emerging dreamily from the hallway bathroom with a Duran Duran magazine spread in front of her face and then squeaking in protest as he brushed past her to lock himself in his bedroom. Sweeping clothes and textbooks off his bed, Andrew laid flat, laced his fingers across his chest, stared at the ceiling, and counted the hours until Monday morning and school. And Allison.

CLAIRE

Dropping into the seat beside her father, her lips still tingling, Claire gazed at John as the car pulled away, then lingered on the side mirror as he grew more distant.

"Claire Bear?" Her father's voice broke through the reverie.

"Hi, daddy," Claire chirped as she flashed him a smile.

"You look pretty happy considering you just got out of detention. Not so bad, I guess?"

Claire chewed her lip as her eyes sparkled in their knowing way. "No, not so bad. Actually, it turned out pretty good."

They stopped at a traffic light. His eyes weighed her. "Claire? You all right? You seem a little…different."

Claire flipped a hand in his direction. "I'm fine."

"Claire?" His tone was serious.

"Yeah?"

"Who was that boy you were talking to?"

_He knows. Maybe not everything that happened, but he knows something happened._

Trying in vain to keep the heat from rising in her face, Claire put on her best innocent face. "What boy?"

Eyebrows raised. "The boy you were…talking to…back at the school."

"Oh, nobody. Just one of my fellow inmates." She forced her fingers to stop fiddling with her purse strap and stared out her window, suddenly very interested in a weathered old lady waiting at a bus stop. A few seconds passed. A few seconds more. Then the car began to move forward and she allowed herself to breathe again.

_I'm not a tease. I'm NOT a tease. _

_You want to, but you can't. But when you do, you wish you didn't. Right?_ Allison's voice.

_Right?_

John was free, back out in his world, and the dreamy euphoria crystallized into fear. Would he say anything? Who would he tell? Would he brag about it? Who would know on Monday morning, or before then?

Closing her eyes, Claire leaned her head back, hugged herself, and tried to flush it all out of her mind. But John's face kept swimming up into her vision. And he was smirking.

ALLISON

She had him. God knew how, but she had him. And now she had a souvenir as well. As the car pulled away, she dragged her huge bag onto her lap and ran her fingertips over the circular terrycloth badge she had ripped off Andrew's letterman's jacket. She smirked. _Now it's just a man's jacket._

She looked out the window and caught her breath when she spotted her reflection, a face she hardly recognized anymore.

Glancing at the back of her parents' heads, both silent in the front seat, Tina Turner on the radio, Allison wondered if they had even noticed. Nothing indicated that they had. Her dad's shoulders were slightly slumped, wrist resting on top of the steering wheel, only the slightest movements of the wheel indicating that he was even driving. And well, she was used to seeing the back of her mom's head. When she actually had occasion to face her, the eyes darted away, always away.

_They ignore me._

She had whispered that cruel, undeniable truth. Sporto had pulled it from her. And he, this beautiful stupid jock, had understood. Not so stupid then.And not so perfect. His life sucked too, in its own stinking dysfunctional way.

The way he had looked at her after Claire had spent forever poking at her eyeballs with little sticks and wands and scratching and pulling at her hair. No guy had ever looked at her like that. Well, Kurt Johnson had kinda looked at her like that, but he was a freaking creep. Sporto hadn't looked at her like _I want a piece of that_. He had looked at her like…like he…well, it was different. _Andy. His name is Andy._

And Claire. Girls like Claire never looked at girls like Allison at all. If they did, they looked away quickly, maybe rolling their eyes at each other and giggling like stupid little Care Bears. Allison had learned to turn it into a game. How invisible can I be in a building with hundreds of people?

And oh my God, how Claire had howled at her when she admitted she was a virgin too! Allison snorted aloud at the thought, then held her breath as she waited for a reaction from the front seat. Nope. "What's Love Got to Do With It?" had all their attention. Pretty appropriate really. _Damn you, Robbie._ Perfect, beautiful Robbie. He would always be fourteen, he would always be strong, he would always be their only son. And they would never forgive her for living instead of him.

BRIAN

Head still slightly buzzing, Brian floated home with a dreamy grin on his face, barely registering his dad's pressing questions about getting all of his homework done. Truth be told, no homework had been completed whatsoever, unless one counted the unimpeachable letter Brian had written on behalf of the Breakfast Club. They had unanimously entrusted him with the task, and he had delivered in grand style. It was the first time anyone other than his friends had trusted him with anything, and his admittedly scrawny chest puffed a bit with pride. Guys like him would someday be entrusted with billion dollar space programs and millions to research a cure for cancer, but in high school? In high school you got your ass taped and stashed in a locker by a bunch of assholes who couldn't even score above the teens on their ACT.

It wasn't Bender who had given him pause when they gathered in the library at 7:00 that morning. Yeah, Bender could have easily kicked his ass, could have wrung him out like a wet towel. Yeah, Bender screwed with his lunch and made fun of him and his friends and his family, but Bender was wounded as he was wounded, and he bullied because he had been bullied. _That's for sure. His pop gave him cigarettes? For Christmas?_

No, it was Andrew Clarke who had sparked a slow burn of resentment within Brian's belly. Guys like him were above the law, or so they thought. They were popular and well-liked. And protected. They brought pride and prestige to the school along with their trophies and newspaper headlines. The Academic Bowl and Odyssey of the Mind ribbons and trophies somehow never made their way into the glass cases in the cafeteria. And when Brian learned that Andrew was the one who had humiliated Larry Lester... Claire had laughed…at first. And what made it worse was that Andrew had no clue Brian was one of Larry's friends. Actually, Brian doubted Andrew had a clue that Larry even had friends.

But then it had all spilled out, and the cool tough guy athlete façade had crumbled before their eyes. Who would have guessed they had the same nagging, perfection demanding parents?

Brian pushed the thought away and unclenched his hands. He had almost lost his cool vibe, but he stretched his fingers out and found zen again. He never would have believed it, but an understanding had been reached between the two of them. Among all of them. It remained to be seen if Andy or Claire, or even Bender or Allison for that matter, would treat him like anything resembling a friend on Monday. He wasn't sure how much that even mattered now. He had seriously considered taking his life (with a flare gun, so he couldn't even do _that_ right) and had come through it a different kind of man. Had this really been set off by something as stupid as a ceramic elephant lamp?

Brian laced his fingers behind his head and grinned, basking in a newly birthed confidence that was both strange and welcome. Today he had shaken off the heavy chains of family demands, the suffocating status structure of high school, the enormous pressure he had placed on himself. With the noise silenced, he could finally hear adulthood and freedom calling his name. Brian Johnson could hold his smoke and a lot more besides. Oh yes he could.

THE END

_Coming soon: Monday_


	2. Chapter 2: Monday - Encounters

**MONDAY: ENCOUNTERS**

_ALLISON_

As her faded red Converse sneakers swung out of the car and onto the sidewalk outside the school building she had vacated only 40 hours before, the growing sense of dread that had sprouted in Allison's belly flowered into something close to panic. Rooted to the spot, she felt her mom's car pull away and, along with it, a muted flash of anger. She had long ago dropped any attempt at making eye contact or murmuring a goodbye to her mother, who seemed to resent the daily drop off and pickup even though it made sense. After all, "Mrs. Reynolds" taught second grade just down the street at Mills Elementary. After three years, little had changed, but the sliver of hope she clung to hadn't joined her brother Robbie in the grave.

Not yet.

_I'll be sixteen in five days._ Yes, but with no job and no money saved for a car, what the hell did sixteen get her anyway? Two more years of shit before she graduated, that's what.

The sun shone clear and bright, and scads of students had planted themselves on the sidewalk and front steps in groups, always in their "By Invitation Only" groups. Forcing her feet to move forward, Allison made her way up the steps, picking her way through the throng, head down, bag clutched to her body. The front door blew open and she was inside, slipping silently up the stairs and into the girls' restroom in the science hall, always empty before the first bell.

Dropping her bag and taking a breath, Allison moved to a mirror and took stock. Her shock of black hair once more shielded her face; damned if she was going to draw her locks back like a curtain and reveal her face center stage. The pretty headband from Claire had made an appearance that morning, but had quickly been abandoned to a place on her pillow safe from all the shit that cluttered her bedroom.

So the hair was out in full force, but the "black shit" around her eyes was not. Allison had used a light hand, a _very_ light hand, and the barest glimpse of liner circled her eyes. What had Claire said? It brings them out or opens them up, something like that. Not that you could tell with the hair in her face, but it was something, damn it.

Allison backed away from the mirror and observed her outfit, painstakingly chosen and put on that morning, then switched with other pieces, then switched yet again. Baggy black sweater. Check. Trusty Converse sneaks. Check. But instead of the billowing frumpy skirt, her skinny jeans left little mystery as to the shape of her legs. They also served to give the baggy sweater the illusion of not seeming to swallow her whole.

Allison eyed her bag, then her visage in the mirror. Back to the bag, to the mirror. The first bell rang, startling her, and on an impulse, Allison ran to her bag, rummaged through it, and pulled out a chunky red belt. Hands shaking, she looped it around her hips, fumbled with the clasp, then stepped back and fitted her sweater around it. Her mouth dropped open when she realized that now not only her legs, but her waist, left little to the imagination.

Turning sideways, she planted her hands on her hips and posed like a model, smiled brightly. In that moment she looked much cooler than she felt. But she felt a little cooler.

Voices, still distant, resonated in the hallway. Allison flew to her bag, dropped to her knees, and pulled out Andrew's wrestling badge. Running her fingers over it, she waited for the warm, happy feeling from Saturday to wash over her and pull away the tension. It didn't come.

Feeling her panic rise again, she shoved the badge deep into her bag and stood up, pulling its strap onto her shoulder.

She gave herself one more glance in the mirror.

Her fingers strayed toward her belt, ready to unclasp it.

Then the door opened and two girls entered, laughing at some joke.

Allison lowered her eyes and scurried out the door.

_CLAIRE_

Stirring her styrofoam cup of steaming cappuccino, Claire watched her dad's BMW glide away, then turned toward the school. The steps were littered with various groups of people, more now that spring had finally arrived and the air had warmed somewhat in the mornings. Someone had a boom box playing some new song. "Don't You Forget About Me", something like that. Nice beat.

_We danced like crazy fools. In the LIBRARY. _Claire smiled at the thought, then made her way up the steps, her soft leather boots floating soundlessly up and into the building. Sipping away, she rounded a couple of corners and entered the cafeteria, which was buzzing with students finishing breakfast, chatting with friends, or scrambling to finish homework. Her eyes instantly found her friends, who always held court at the same group of tables, and without warning, panic wormed its way up her spine.

While a small voice deep inside her reasoned that no one could possibly know what had happened on Saturday, another, more insistent voice guaranteed that it would show plainly on her face. Claire Standish had completely opened up - boy, had she ever - to a guy (_burner_) she barely knew, and now she felt as exposed as if she had walked in naked as they day she was born. _Brian and Allison are somewhere around here too_, the voice spit. _What if they show up and talk to you? What if John does? What if? What if? _

_What if?_

With her mother out of town and her father and his team of attorneys holed up in meetings preparing for some major litigation, Claire had spent the remainder of the weekend in welcome solitude convincing herself that it was no big deal, that nothing had changed. That _she_ hadn't changed.

But then, unbidden, his breath on her lips and his arms curled around her waist exploded into her sensory awareness, and she felt physically faint. Now Monday morning had come, and Claire had no choice but to face these girls who would dump her like trash if they had any clue.

So she played her ace. She did what she did best. She faked it.

Striding purposefully across the cafeteria, she cooed a hello to the girls and took her usual seat between Cindy Melaney and Tiffany Carter. They were all agog about the history project Mrs. Mullins had assigned three weeks ago, due this Friday.

"Can you believe it? The day before PROM?"

"Oh my God, she is completely mental."

"Outrageous."

"I haven't even had time to THINK about it."

"Oh, Claire. Those bangles are so proper."

And on and on. Claire felt her limbs slowly relax as she joined naturally into the stream of conversation, realizing that her fears were, for the moment, unfounded. Her friends were absolutely, blessedly, oblivious.

_BENDER_

John Bender crushed his cigarette under his boot and sauntered into the hallowed hallways of Shermer High a full twenty minutes earlier than usual, which translated to fifteen minutes before the tardy bell. Normally when he arrived for Mrs. Prue's first hour English class, the hallways were deserted. Mrs. Prue, a chain smoker (he had often seen her out back sneaking a cig) with a dark pixie cut and the body of a tall ten year-old boy, had tossed a few warnings and a couple of detentions his way for being tardy, but she had long since given up and no longer appeared to notice when he strolled in and took a seat.

Today, however, curiosity had lured him out of bed and to the cafeteria, a place John Bender rarely ventured. As he entered and casually leaned against the wall near the door with one boot propped up, John wondered for what seemed like the hundredth time in the last 36 hours if these people's problems were so different, so worse, than his own.

On Saturday night Bender had wandered over to his friend Roy's place and crashed the rest of the weekend, partly because he didn't want to risk John Bender, Sr. ruining his son's good mood, and partly because Roy had a copy of last year's yearbook, something Bender wouldn't have taken last year if they were handing them out for free. Within its pages he tracked down the fellow members of "The Breakfast Club", as Brian had named them in his group letter to Dick.

There was Andrew Clarke, dressed in a suit and tie that Mrs. Clarke likely made him wear for the huge packet of pictures she likely purchased. Junior Class Vice President. How sweet.

There was Brian Johnson, a sophomore last year, his head too large for his scrawny neck, like an egg sitting on a golf tee. Yes, it was true. Not only was he in the Physics Club and Latin Club, he was proud enough to list them as activities under his picture.

Not surprisingly, Allison Reynold's picture was "Not Available" and she appeared to be activity free. So she hadn't bothered to show up for picture day or retake day. It appeared her folks did not have time to wait in line to shell out cash for pictures of their daughter.

Claire Standish he saved for last. Her little portrait seemed to leap from the page with her perfect hair and glossy smile. Bender flipped to the index and noted that no fewer than ten pages contained some reference to Claire, and he examined each one in detail. Student Council, French Club, Homecoming Attendant, Prom Committee. His favorite was a candid shot from some school wide canned food drive that had not even made a blip on his radar. Standing behind a table with a handmade sign reading "FEED OUR HOMELESS HERE", Claire was captured forever in time taking a large sack from a fellow student. She looked nothing and everything like the girl he'd met on Saturday. Hair back in a scarf, unseen. Button down shirt rolled up to just below her elbows over a tee shirt and tied in a little knot at the bottom. Jeans rolled up with tennis shoes peeking out underneath. And that smile, beaming from those pouty lips.

And now here he stood, a bird watcher on a Monday morning, seeing with new eyes. Uncertainty. Fear. Everywhere. Some hid it better than others. _We're all trying to figure out who the hell we are._

His eyes rested on Vernon across the cafeteria, standing stiff with arms crossed like a cop on his beat. He looked appropriately ridiculous in a gray suit with a crimson pointy-collared shirt so reminiscent of the disco chic that Dick was obviously loathe to leave in the 70's where it belonged. Vernon caught his eye, registered momentary surprise, then acquired the smug grin Bender had come to know and hate. Then he held up both hands, palms facing out, thumbs tucked in. Eight. Eight Saturdays.

_I got you for two months._

Bender dropped his foot from the wall and propped the other one up, flipped the hair out of his face, and stared at the ceiling, willing himself not to flip Vernon two birds. Prick.

Moments later his gaze dropped and rested on Brian not twenty feet away standing at a table littered with textbooks and Trapper Keepers, clearly all business. He was engrossed in a hot debate with two other dweeb types over what must have been math homework considering the calculators in their hands that they occasionally pointed at each other. Bender tuned in and caught snippets of their conversation.

"It doesn't work that way, I'm telling you it doesn't work."

"Look, X and C are known constants, so you have to solve for the first-order linear coefficient before you can even plug in the sine and cosine."

"Yeah, but didn't Mr. Harrison say…"

"I got it!" One of the guys, wearing a t-shirt that read "I Invented Space Paranoids", brandished his calculator in the air like a pistol, the others gathering around and staring at it like scientists studying a new species.

"That's it, that's it," Brian replied in an awed tone, and then, "Okay, how'd we get there?" The group hovered over their scribblings, now speaking too low to hear.

Brian looked to be completely in his element and oblivious to anything or anyone else in the bustling cafeteria, including the observer standing not twenty feet from him. Bender had to smile.

The first bell rang, interrupting the flow of conversation, and students began streaming past Bender and through the door.

Then he saw her, her flame-red hair as noticeable in the crowd as a candle in a dark room. She approached with a few other queenies, chatting and laughing, when her gaze broke away and their eyes met, Claire's growing as wide as saucers. He fought the urge to intercept her as she clutched her books more tightly, chewing her lip, imploring him with her eyes. _Please, please don't._

_No._ Bender straightened, shaking his head slightly. _No, no. You're safe with me._

Then she was gone.

_BRIAN_

The wind whipped Brian's jacket as he headed toward the middle of three beige prefabs behind the school, and he ducked his head and hugged his books closer to his chest. Prefab. Odd word for the single-wide trailers with wooden steps leading up to them, but many of the schools in the Chicago area installed them when classes outgrew their brick and mortar buildings, and they all called them prefabs. As he climbed the steps to shop class, the familiar mix of sawdust, paint, and raucous laughter from the Shop Guys met him.

The Shop Guys were mainly juniors and seniors who likely felt completely inadequate in algebra and science but ruled the roost here. Even more insufferable, they could care less about mechanical engineering but could do something Brian had failed to do. _Failed._ They could make things with their hands, cool things, effortlessly, with no damned directions.

Brian had left this same school on Saturday a new man, confident and cool. But as he entered the little building and moved mere feet to his seat strategically situated by the door, any semblance of that guy slunk off with better things to do. His limbs felt watery, his mouth dry.

"Just classical conditioning," Brian muttered under his breath. "Fear by association. Just think of something else."

He lifted his eyes to check out the clock across the room…and locked eyes with Bender.

John Bender was seated directly under the clock, smack dab in the middle of the Shop Guys. But as they laughed and jabbed around him, he sat stock still, slack jawed as he stared at Brian. For his part, Brian simply stared back. He had never noticed Bender in here before, likely because he had the habit of avoiding any and all eye contact with the Shop Guys. Eye contact meant trouble. So why couldn't he look away now? _Because we're cool. Right?_

One of the Shop Guys, a particularly rough-looking individual with his own version of the worn denim jacket and assorted bandanas, caught Bender's stare and followed it, his eyes resting on a young man who wanted no part of being rested upon. Lightning quick, Bender smirked, clapped his companion on the shoulder, and proceeded to enlighten them all with some kind of story. Brian's throat clicked. The room was too noisy to make out the conversation, but considering Bender's weed had become intimately familiar with Brian's pants only two days ago…

Time slowed as Brian gaped at Bender and the Shop Guys, feeling rather like a mouse watching a group of tomcats discuss exactly how they would pounce. But as the seconds ticked by, no one looked his way. Even Bender did not so much as glance at him. The story ended with an eruption of laughter, of course it did, and God knows what it was about, but it wasn't about him. Brian released the breath he'd been holding and even allowed himself a small smile. _Yeah, we're cool._

_ANDREW_

Clutching the bulging paper bag that held lunch, Andrew stepped into the cafeteria and immediately began scanning the crowd for a mop of dark hair.

"Clarke!"

Startled, Andrew spied his friends sitting at their usual table to the left, not far from the large glass cases filled with plaques and trophies earned by current and former students. Some of those awards bore the names of guys presently at his table. A couple of them bore his name.

The booming voice belonged to Stubby, a hefty linebacker with a blonde "Boz Buzz", as they called it, the buzzed mohawk OU football player Brian Bosworth had recently made famous. Stubby had sprung up when he spotted Andrew and now waved him over as if Andrew didn't know where they sat every day. Reluctantly, he sauntered over and took a seat with his back to the wall so he could survey the room.

"Homey, where were you? You totally bagged on us!" Stubby exclaimed.

Tommy Eldridge chimed in. "Yeah, that was a bitchin' good time, man." He ribbed Ricky Robbins, Shermer High's quarterback, tall and lean and, against stereotype, extremely shy. "Ricky got to third base with Heather Simmons."

Ricky blushed, making his boyish face look even younger, and grinned down at his lunch. "Whatever."

Stubby guffawed. "Yeah, in my sister's bedroom." As if that was the funniest thing imaginable. "What, did you chicken out or could you not get her zipper down?"

"Nah, it wasn't like that," Ricky said with a chuckle as he took another bite out of his sandwich.

"Hey, it's okay man. She's Queen of the Prudes." Stubby turned his attention back to Andrew. "So man, where were you Saturday night? I had a beer bong with your name on it."

The truth was, Stubby's party had not sounded the least bit interesting as he lay on his bed Saturday afternoon while a thousand thoughts flashed through his mind. Most he observed and released, but a few he hung on to and analyzed for what felt like hours. Wrestling. His future. His dad. Allison.

As if the thought of her name had the power to conjure her into existence, he spotted her sitting at a table across the cafeteria and his heart leapt into his throat.

He didn't remember grabbing his lunch and crossing the cafeteria, but suddenly there he stood among people he had never paid any mind before now. He knew none of their names. Andrew was dimly aware of the paused conversations and faces turned toward an alien in their midst, but his focus landed squarely on the girl before him. The hair was in her damned face again and the guarded look was back, but Andrew could tell that the wide eyes staring back at him had been liberated from the thick black makeup. That was something.

She spoke first. "You."

"Me."

"What are you doing here?"

Andrew shrugged. "Talking to you. Is that okay?" He carefully took a seat across from her, placed his lunch sack to the side, and folded his hands on the table.

Allison glanced over his shoulder. "Your friends are looking."

"I don't care."

"Of course you care."

"Actually, I do care. That's what I'm doing here."

Allison snorted, then stared at his jacket sleeve, the one she had freed of its badge.

Andrew leaned forward, speaking low. "Look, what happened on Saturday. That was real. You…you're safe with me."

Allison shot him a dangerous look. "_Safe_ with you? What, you think I need your _protection_?"

"No, that's not what I…"

"You're taking _pity_ on me?"

"What? No, I want to spend time with you…"

She stood abruptly, and Andrew was momentarily stymied by the slim jeans that showed off her legs. A heartbeat later, the beautiful eyes he had dreamed about all weekend were misty.

"Go to hell."

It came out as a broken whisper, and as she grabbed her huge bag and walked out of the cafeteria, Andrew could not for the life of him understand why this had gone so wrong, so differently from what he had imagined. He started to follow, but something cautioned him against it.

Instead he stood there, took a few deep breaths, grabbed his lunch, and left by a different door, deliberately avoiding his friends and their wild stares.

A thought stopped Andrew short. Allison had been sitting there in the crowded cafeteria at a table all by herself, no lunch, no company, even among the outcasts.

_I will have to win her. _A fire settled behind his eyes, the corner of his mouth lifted in a dimpled grin. All his life, it had been drilled into him to win. He had awakened that morning as he had the day before, feeling the warmth of her smile, the softness of her cheek, the electricity of her honesty and vulnerability. No way was he going to lose her without a fight.

_COMING SOON…. WEDNESDAY: RECKONINGS_


End file.
